


sweetest downfall

by Inky_Pens



Category: Shadow and Bone (TV), The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, But sex, F/M, antis this is not for you, but also v sad, mal who, no beta we die like men, regina spektor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Pens/pseuds/Inky_Pens
Summary: When the history books told her story, they would say how she betrayed both saints and suffered greatly for it. They would talk about her scars and how she came to earn them.History has a way of forgetting the good parts.
Relationships: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova & Genya Safin, The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Genya Safin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	sweetest downfall

**Author's Note:**

> _Please be mindful that this story has canon elements, including references to Genya & the king (not graphic, not detailed--akin to canon in the way they are alluded to) and the Darkling's punishment on Genya. If those items are sensitive to you, you may not want to read a backstory that reimagines the relationship between the Darkling and Genya._

She knew the moment it began, and she knew the moment it was over. No one else knew, not even him, but she did. That knowledge wasn’t power; she couldn’t leverage it. Even if she could, even if there were secrets and truths not yet discovered, even if it could save a nation, she wouldn’t do it. She had already betrayed him once. The price was steep, and fate was a ruthless collector of debts.

She told herself it was because he loved her, too. When the merzost ravaged her, stole years of perfected beauty tailored especially for him, this bespoke perfect lover, she felt it as his tongue slicing down her neck. His lips puncturing her cheek. His fingers, always skilled, attuned to her body more than even she, the consummate tailor, stroking out her eye.

It was lovemaking, brutal and vicious, and when Genya Safin whispered _I love you_ at the end of it, the Darkling wept at her feet.

> _cумерки |_ _dusk._

She had never seen him in the queen’s salon before. The queen took private visitors often, not unlike her husband, Genya thought with a shudder, but for it to be _him_ was bizarre. That the queen could seduce him sent a wave of displeasure roiling through her stomach, but what right did a servant have to a man such as the general of the Second Army? The Darkling was the leader of the Grisha, the king’s right hand, and she was a nobody, albeit a very beautiful nobody, with a silly title: the First Tailor. And although very good at her job, the best she might argue on some days, the other Grisha didn’t treat her as a peer. She was beneath everyone, even them, and certainly him. 

So it came as genuine shock when she exited the queen’s massive wardrobe carrying an armful of silks and a heavy petticoat, and not only did he see her, he acknowledged her with a polite smile and offered to help.

“Oh no,” Genya declined with a quiet whisper. “The queen does not allow anyone to touch her clothes. Well, unless they’re taking it off her.” The jibe slipped out easily, too easily with him, and she quickly averted her eyes while murmuring an apology for her sharp tongue.

But the Darkling was full of surprises, and the faintest chuckle ghosted around her ears. “I will keep my hands to myself then.” But as he said it, he brushed the blonde hair from her face and tucked it neatly behind her ear. His fingertips lingered above her neck three fluttering heartbeats, not quite touching her. It looked like he might want to.

The queen’s shrill voice called for her from the dressing room. Genya grit her teeth and smoothed her grimace. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“How is she treating you?” the Darkling nodded to the queen's changing room. Genya had been "gifted" to the queen some time ago when he discovered her talent for tailoring. She used to resent him for it, being made a servant, but she never really grew into her Heartrender skills that would have made her a liability in battle, and aside from the tittering of her peers, Genya enjoyed the luxuries and perks of staying in the Grand Palace. While the Second Army ate herring and kasha, Genya had unrestricted access to the kitchens--and more importantly, friendships with the kitchen staff. She doubted the other Grisha had custom cakes made on their birthdays.

"She's fine. I think she learned quickly that I held her face literally in my hands, so best not to antagonize me too much. I doubt you’d be able to pick her out in a room full of five people if I wasn’t working on her.”

He laughed again, and Genya decided it was something he must not do often, because there was a surprise that quirked his features. Like it was an uncomfortable revelation that she could make him react this way. The queen called for her again, this time with a current of annoyance that stifled the room in awkwardness. 

“I should go. It was nice seeing you, General.”

He gave her a polite nod. “I should hope we’ll do so again, Genya.”

He said it with such promise and conviction, and Genya knew this was only the beginning.

_\---_

“But could you do it?” He was insistent, almost nervous in a way that did not suit him. 

“I mean, I--yes, I suppose. Yes. I can do it. But I would have to _be_ there, Darkling. I’m not allowed to leave the palaces.” She had also never done a tailoring of that magnitude. A few of the queen’s royal court for parties, sure, but those were minor adjustments. What he was asking for, an entire troop of Ravkan Grisha made to look like Fjerdans, had never been done before. She didn’t know how long it would last, and he wasn’t giving her time to test how good it would be.

“Don’t worry about the Lantsovs,” the Darkling dismissed. “I will clear it with the king.”

That evening, he found her in her room at the Grand Palace and gave her only ten minutes to gather her things for the trip, producing a small rucksack for her belongings. She balked at the size and the hurry and quickly set to throwing her room into chaos while the Darkling looked on.

“The _necessities_ , Genya,” he admonished.

She stared at him, wide-eyed and frazzled, with three pots of tinctures in a single hand. “These _are_ necessities, Darkling. As it is, I don’t know what room I’ll have to fit any clothes.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “You can add them to my bag. The others are already riding out. I don’t wish to be too far behind. Carry the rest of your things by hand, and you can deposit them in my private carriage.”

Genya huffed while gathering undergarments and boots that she only ever wore on travels with the royal family. She pulled two white kefta from her closet, but the Darkling cleared his throat when she threw them on her bed.

“For this trip, you’ll be wearing red. Like the other Corporalki. I thought that might help you blend in.” He held out the crimson kefta for her, and while she had no expectations of going in anything other than her servant’s kefta, she was surprised to find the kefta was beautifully pleated with crisp lines, black buttons, and fine gold embroidery at the edges. _Like_ the Corporalki but not. Where he found this, or had _made_ by the look of it, in less than twelve hours from this morning’s discussion, was anyone’s guess.

When she approached him to take the clothes from him, she was struck by this overwhelming urge to kiss him. A traditional “thank you” for gratitude would not suffice. He had put thought into this. He had no real cause to change her uniform, but he’d done so anyway to help her fit in. He did it for her. 

Her lips parted to give her thanks, but what came out was this audible noise somewhere between a shuddering exhale and a whimper. She flushed as deeply as the kefta and bit down on her lip to stop any more embarrassing sounds from escaping.

His gaze narrowed, slowly left her eyes and fell to her mouth, then darkened.

The pull was magnetic. The moment her lips touched his, she felt a rush of power, stole the breath from him as she gasped at yet another surprise. He was a living amplifier, something she’d never seen before. The feeling made her skin tingle, but maybe that was also his tongue sliding in her mouth, licking along the roof in the most sensual way she’d ever felt.

The Darkling crushed her red kefta to her back and pulled her closer to him, burying a hand in her hair to shake out the bun she kept it coiled in throughout the day. His fingers massaged her scalp, and he swallowed her moan, kissed her more deeply. Genya had never been kissed like this before, she was sure of it. Sure that he had ruined kissing for her from all other men, sure that her body could not possibly feel any more alive than it did under his touch. 

When they broke apart, both gasping, she was glad she opened her eyes first so she could see his reaction.

His grey quartz pupils were darker, a detail she could make out clearly because his eyes had gone wide as saucers as he took her in.

“Your hair,” he mumbled in a daze. His laugh was breathless, mesmerized by her. “You’ve never looked more...you.” He toyed with a strand between his fingertips. “Let’s go, _krasnaya_.” Genya turned to grab her things, discreetly passing by her vanity to see the shock of red hair greeted her. 

\---

The drunk Shu Han hadn’t made it far before the Darkling slammed open the door to the adjacent tea room and sent the soldier flying to the wall. There was a sickening crunch that Genya heard over the roaring in her ears. 

The Darkling crushed her to his chest only a second later, fumbling with the clasps on the back of her dress, but as most of them had been snapped by clunky, greedy hands, he couldn’t do much to restore the gown to a modicum level of propriety.

“I’m so sorry, Gen,” he murmured in her hair. “I didn’t see him follow you out, and by the time I noticed both of you were missing....Saints, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?” 

She shook her head, but he held her at arm’s length to check anyway. His eyes pinched tight in worry, looking for signs, anything amiss, until he was satisfied that her attacker did not do anything that a seamstress and some time and a strong liquor couldn’t fix. She didn’t think it was worth reminding him that things like this were not uncommon before the Darkling came into her life, nor did she want to rehash their strategy in dealing with the king’s advances to make a point that she was not fragile.

“How long do you think he’ll stay like that?”

The Darkling barely gave him a passing glance. “He might be bleeding internally for all I care. I don’t intend to leave him breathing long enough to find out.”

Genya shook her head. “Don’t incite another war on my account.” 

He didn’t respond, wouldn’t make any promises he couldn’t keep. 

She sighed, hating their night was ruined because of this. They had a whole plan. He was to mingle able about for the bare minimum time deemed appropriate for the occasion, she was to be present as a guest, not a servant, during the cocktail reception, and just before the main course, she would sneak to the kitchens to take plates of meats and cheese for the two of them to dine on in her room. He was responsible for nipping a bottle of the sparkling wine that made her giggly and dizzy.

“Hey,” she cajoled him, pulled him to her by the front of his elaborate black kefta, “if he’ll be out for a bit, maybe we can skip the wine and dine and start our evening...now”

The smirk playing on his lips was an invitation. He lifted her onto the arm of the settee, pooling her skirt at her waist so her bare bottom was sat on the plush velvet. 

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” She unfastened the front of his kefta, pulled at the belt on his pants. Her fingers nimbly unzipped his trousers, pressing more of her hand to him--cupping him--than was strictly necessary. 

He tugged on the bodice of her dress until her breasts sprang free, then his mouth was on them. Toying the peaks with his tongue, he simultaneously stroked his hand over the lace of her underwear, waiting for the warmth of her arousal to wet the fabric. He’d made her come like this before, and his patience was endless during foreplay. He could play with her slowly for hours, sometimes so late into the evening that they fell asleep with his hand cupping between her legs, his thumb stroking sleepy, mindless circles against her tight bundle of nerves. 

She was determined not to let it go on that long tonight. He was hot and hardening in her palm, matching him stroke for stroke, rewarded every tug of his teeth on her nipple with sounds she knew turned him on. She felt evidence of that jutting against her hand as he made unconscious movements with his hips to create a friction. 

“Because the king,” Genya panted against the Darkling’s mouth, “sometimes he passes out on this sofa when he’s had too much to drink.” It was the last coherent thought she’d have that night.

“Good,” he replied, grunting against the crook of her neck when her fingers tightened around the base of his shaft. “Let’s make a mess of it.”

He hooked the sliver of lace around one finger and pushed two inside of her, satisfied with the lewd sound of her readiness for him. Her legs spread wider, scooting herself closer to the edge of the couch and gripped his forearms and she lowered herself back onto the cushions, The angle pushed her tits higher, so she grabbed them to keep them still and help clear the way for the show: the Darkling grabbed her thighs at his hips and pushed into her, and gods, what a beautiful sight of him dropping his head back to savor the feel of her tight around him.

He started slow, catching every ripple of her cunt sheathing him inch by inch, but from this position, she could do little more than lift her hips to spur him on and play with her breasts to aid him with the visual of them bouncing when he really fucked her. 

“Can you wake him?” The Darkling’s eyes glittered at her when he asked it, and maybe before this, she might blink twice at the implication, but she knew him well enough to operate on the same wavelength, especially like this. Besides, it was hard to deny him anything when he licked his thumb and placed it on her clit while he was seated to the hilt inside her. 

He pulled out and snapped his hips back to her, knocking the wind out of her and with it, a yelp, a groan, a series of unintelligible yelps and phonetics that strung together--loudly. Almost too loudly if anyone was walking by the doors, but she felt reasonably sure the banquet would be far enough down the hall and loud enough with drunk royals that no one would hear her.

The Darkling seemed to take that challenge to heart. He flipped Genya over so her face met cushion and the arm of the sofa dug into her hip bones, but the way he had her laid out and the angle at which he drove into her was cataclysmic. She was muffled now, but that wouldn’t do for his mission of waking the dead or near-dead, so he reached over and pulled her head back by a fistful of his favorite red hair. The noise she made was animalistic, almost guttural, and he smacked the plump side of her ass in approval. She gave another deep groan, lifting her hips to silently ask for more. He slapped again, this time the other cheek, and again, back and forth, painting her warm and red all over. The burn felt exquisite each time his hips hit her, driving down into her against a spot inside her that was going to ruin this fabric in mere moments.

“Darkling…” she warned, and he pushed a hand down on the small of her back to keep her still. 

“My name, Gen. Use my name.”

It was rare she said it, electing to keep it close to her like the sacred, treasured gift it was. As though she was only allowed so much of it before she would use it all up, and it would disappear along with him. That was why she shook her head despite his painful grip.

“Yes,” he demanded. “Say it. Say my name. Who do you belong to?”

Genya whimpered. “You, my love. Always you.”

“Say it, Genya.”

She whimpered again, pulling against his hold on her hair to bury her face in her arms. 

Something wet slipped between her cheeks, and then she felt something that was so filthy, she had only ever thought about it in vague undefined fantasies. His thumb rubbed the tight puckered hole they hadn’t yet talked about, even though she got the feeling he was _definitely_ interested in, by the way his tongue would occasionally sweep lower when he was eating her out. 

He pushed in, just to the first knuckle, but it was enough. The sensation was indescribable, but if she had to explain it, it would be _full_. She felt so full, consumed by him, taken by him in a way that made her a trembling, blubbery mess. She couldn’t hold out any longer.

At the end of a scream, partially muffled by her face in the cocoon of her arms, she said his name softly, lovingly. “Aleksander. Aleksander, Aleksander, Aleksander.” And “I love you. I love you, Aleksander, I love you.”

He came inside of her, hot and thick endless spurts of spend bathing her cunt until it was dribbling out onto the garish blue velvet settee. The very place the king would undoubtedly pass out on later, his face drooling onto the wet spot of their dried come.

Aleksander collapsed on top of her, his weight a heavy comfort, not yet a burden. 

When his breath became even, he nuzzled his nose against her shoulder and pressed a kiss at the nape of her neck. “Are you hungry, my love?”

Genya only shrugged, too satiated to feel anything other than thoroughly fucked. He chuckled against her back, then lifted himself with a grunt. 

“What about him?” she asked of the man slumped in the corner. She was pretty sure they were loud enough to have woken him if he was alive, but she wasn’t going to waste any of her Grisha power to find out. 

Aleksander pulled her up to his chest and fixed her dress so they could at least make it back to her room without scandalizing several nations. “We’ll leave him. If he dies, he dies.”

Genya could live with that. She let him look into her eyes, watched as he grounded himself in them, then broke the intense connection by carding her fingers through his soft hair. “You need a haircut. I’ll do it.”

He kissed the crown of her head indulgently. A “ _yes, wife_ ” response if she’d ever heard one.

\---

She was pouting. It would aggravate him, but he surrounded himself with enough false smiles. He would tolerate her poor attitude in response to his announcement. That he hadn’t told her first, that she had to learn through overhead conversations between the king and his eldest son, well _that_ ’ _s_ what bothered her most anyway.

“Since when do you control my itinerary?”

“It’s not about that. You’ll be gone for a month, perhaps longer, and you didn’t think I was worth telling? Were you going to leave one morning--just slip out of bed and say nothing so you can disappear for a month?”

He sighed in frustration, though the sound didn’t deter her. In fact, it was almost a privilege to be on the receiving end of such a normal reaction. It was an act of vulnerability, one reserved for her and Baghra, and a welcome relief from his cold, sometimes cruel detachment.

“Gen, I was only told myself this morning; I left breakfast early, if you recall. You may also recall that when I saw you this afternoon, we were a bit...distracted. I didn’t think it was the right time to tell you of my assignment with my cock down your throat.” He raised a brow at her, a challenge for her to meet him boldly at the impasse of their argument. 

She could point out the time they spent after in quiet afterglow as an opportunity for him to have spoken up, but what did it matter? He was leaving regardless, and she would miss him terribly. Maybe that’s what had her out of sorts. 

“A month,” she conceded. She plucked a strand of red hair off his black silk pillow--a constant futile effort that amused him endlessly.

Convinced she was no longer a threat to his feet becoming hooves, Aleksander stalked up the length of the bed towards her. He ended up hovering over her body, a hand on either side of her face, knees bracketing her hips. “I’ve been gone longer,” he reminded her. He bent his head to plant gentle kisses over her face. Her temple, brow, nose, cheek all warmed with his attention.

She turned her head to the side to expose her neck. It also helped her get the next words out when she wasn’t looking at him. “The king’s...proclivities are becoming more aggressive.”

He stopped, studied her, weighed his words carefully. They had an understanding of what was to happen with the king, but Genya kept waiting for the signal that Aleksander assured her he would give. She wanted to tell him she didn’t know how much more of it she could take, but she couldn’t bear the thought of showing weakness. Not when he was working so hard to change their future.

He rolled off of her but took her with him, tucking her snugly against his side and pulling the coverlets over them. Nevermind that neither of them had changed out of their keftas or taken to the banya before bed. 

“I think, sweet girl, we should consider a very deep--almost so dark it could be black--green for the upholstery.” 

She rolled her eyes. “You always consider black.”

When things became too heavy between them, they played this game. They imagined their future together, where they overthrew the throne and cast out the Lantsovs one way or another. They would refurnish the palace, discuss the differences between breakfast pastries and afternoon tea ones, and deconstruct the subjugation of Grisha as second-class citizens. Alina vowed to never wear white again, except for her wedding, and Aleksander would reply, “ _Oh? Who are you planning to marry_ ?” 

She liked that part best, because when she was too shy to name him, she would tease other names. Like David, the Materialki boy who helped design weaponry. Aleksander would narrow his eyes and swat her on the behind or maybe kiss her senseless, but sometimes he would fuck every other name out of her until his was the only one bouncing off of the four walls and coming back to them as echoes. “ _Yours, yours, yours._ ”

They discussed shades of green until she reminded him for the hundredth or thousandth time that he could not have everything black. She didn’t want to live in an opulent tomb.

He thought about it for a moment. “We’ll add gold then,” he said resolutely. 

“Why gold?”

Aleksander took her by the chin and tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “It’s your color. It’s the color you should be wearing. Not servant white or Corporalki red. Gold. It’s the color of warmth. The color of your eyes. We’ll paint the whole palace with it--the Little Palace, too.”

She could see it reflected in his eyes, and it looked like adoration, devotion, _love_. The forever kind of love that told her she was one in a lifetime--in his lifetime, and maybe if she couldn’t share all of his with him, then at least he would share all of hers. 

> _pассветc_ | _dawn._

Alina Starkov arrived with fanfare, particularly in the Little Palace, where the Grisha couldn’t help themselves. They tittered and gossipped about the mousey girl their general had stumbled upon while travelling. She was a member of the First Army, a mapmaker's apprentice, which seemed to suit her, Genya thought spitefully, if not unfairly. 

Aleksander had assigned her to the girl, asking Genya to keep watch over her and help her acclimate to their ways. _Befriend her_ , was his specific instruction. She wanted to protest, but the assignment would get her out of the Grand Palace more often, and it wasn’t like Genya had many friends among the Grisha. At least this girl didn’t come with the judgmental gossip mill of the Little Palace.

Genya thought she was sweet and naive, the latter fact Aleksander would exploit fully, though to what end, Genya didn’t know. He said she was special, but it wasn’t the same way he called _her_ special. It didn’t have the same weight or cadence to it. In any case, she slept in his room that first week, doing as little sleep as possible lest he forget how special she was, too.

\---

He instructed her to collect Alina’s letters to a boy she left back home. Malyen was his name. An unimpressive boy, from the sound of him. But Aleksander insisted that Genya collect the letters on the guise of mailing them out, when instead she took them to his study and watched him pore over them, fixated and fascinated by the girl’s love for this Mal.

“She’s pining for him like a simpleton,” he complained one evening. “It’s pathetic.” 

Genya laid against his side, tracing a nail around his nipple. She had the urge to kiss it, swirl her tongue around it, and so she did. “She loves him. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Aleksander scoffed. “He’s otkazat'sya. He wasn’t impressed when her power finally revealed itself. A stupid boy with no concept of power. There’s never been another like her--a Sun Summoner. And he was afraid of her. Ashamed, even. Pathetic.”

Genya bristled at his assessment. He had assured her his involvement with Alina was to bring out her rare ability, provide her with amplifiers that would make her easily subdued and controlled. She was too much of a threat on her own. Other nations would murder her, or experiment on her, or use her to close the Fold and further the war in their favor. He couldn’t let that happen. So he would exploit her power himself by earning her trust and using it against her until it was too late. Then she would close the Fold, and Aleksander could advance the Second Army across Ravka to win the war. Genya had her part to play as well; she would use the war’s advancement to murder the king, and Aleksander would usurp the throne to rid Ravka of the plight that kept them slaves to a crown that wouldn’t claim them.

Nowhere in this plan was he supposed to _like_ the girl. Even if she did see Alina as a friend, she wasn’t stupid enough to ignore her as a threat. 

Genya plucked the letter from his hand and threw it on the floor. Before he could get out the first syllable of her name, her mouth was on him, hot and wet and teasing the head of his cock with the tip of her tongue, swirls and slurps and pretty kisses over the thick length, until he picked her up by her hair and pushed her down so hard she choked.

\---

Alina’s escape should have made everything the way it had been. He would stop with this silly obsession and let the girl go. They would carry out their plan to murder the king, exile the queen and princes, and claim the throne together. They would figure out the Fold another time. 

And Genya could go back to being the light of his life. His lover and confidant. His little _krasnaya_ . He could go back to sneaking kisses in the hallway, arguing over whose room they slept in more. He would smile again at the way she brought him tea with a couple teaspoons of sugar snuck into them, because he secretly preferred it sweet, and she knew that, even when he chided her on overindulgence while nibbling on the queen’s pastries. He would forget about the girl being his equal, and so would Genya, and Genya would forget how he dressed the girl in gold-- _her_ color--and they would never bring it up again. Genya would tailor herself to look this way forever if he’d asked for it. Perhaps one day she could see herself sharing him with a few babies that would live on after her to always remind him of her, with his dark hair and her eyes--he always lost himself in them...

The horror of what he’d done to his own mother hadn’t left her. But from the way he tossed and turned at night, brooded in his library instead of her bed, she knew it hadn’t left him either. 

\---

The downfall was torrential. 

She had a split second to make a decision, but even with the gun in her hand, she knew there was never a choice. She had only ever chosen him, and today would not be different. She hoped one day he would see that. 

Alina was long gone when Aleksander found Genya with the gun still in her hand. He saw the tremor in her hand as she dropped it.

“How could you? How _dare_ you?” 

Genya barely afforded herself a deep breath before she unloaded everything she had held back for months. “You left me no choice! You wouldn’t let her go. You--she doesn’t love you! She didn’t sacrifice anything, _everything_ for you. Everything I have done, I have done for you. For us. For our future together. For our black and gold walls and the dream that I was good enough to keep you for my forever. And you bring this girl home and invite her into the future that _I_ helped build, and you did it without once thinking how much it would hurt me. You looked at her like you look at me. So yes, I dare, Aleksander. If you are going to ruin everything we had for a silly girl who does not want anything you could offer, then how could you possibly blame me for fighting back?”

The rage pulled the air from her lungs, and they rapidly descended into the kind of cold only he could fill a room with. “This is madness, Genya. You destroyed our chance to close the Fold because you’re jealous. You are a child. You know nothing of--”

Genya closed her fist and watched the words die in a choke she held on his throat. Tailor made, but Heartrender born, and she became an excellent student under him. 

But Aleksander was older than her, so much older, and more powerful than anyone could ever imagine. He fought against her weak hold on him and held her wrists painfully against her back.

They had been in a position like this before, as lovers, playful and seductive, and with the way he was looking at her now, she was sure she didn’t know the difference between love and hate. He wore them the same, but perhaps now she did, too.

“You ruined everything,” he whispered against her lips. His voice was ragged with fury--and anguish.

Genya brushed her lips against his, back and forth, memorizing the feel. “I know.”

The kiss was meant to be deadly. He held her while the merzost tore through her body. His hands were soft and gentle on her cheeks, even as his power rippled across her skin in painful cuts that would leave the most terrible scars. He held her gaze, searched her eyes, even as he stole the sight from her. She held back on the scream, lips trembling against his in agony. His tears fell onto her, and maybe that was the feeling she would remember most later. Not the pain, or the betrayal, or the devastating loss between them.

But the warmth of his tears splashing on her cheeks, salt in the wounds he gave her. _Her_. The girl who loved him first.

**Author's Note:**

> My playlist for this one-shot is just the deep cut of Regina Spektor's "Samson" on repeat until I was a mess. You can pick out the parallels from the lyrics to this story, and when you've finished and want to add another layer of **ouch** , I recommend giving it a listen. I could not get the idea of these two in this Samson/not-Delilah out of my head after I made the connection.


End file.
